A Son of Aran (22 page)

‘That may not be such a good idea,' Seosamh thought to himself. He refrained from comment. ‘It's Eileen's house,' he said to himself, ‘and Philip is her friend.'

‘Three cheers for Aran,' he shouted with glee as, with an arm around Eileen, they disembarked at Kilronan pier and set out to walk to her former home. Sorcha was aware of their arrival but had been sworn to secrecy not to tell Peadar. If he had plans to go fishing with Máirtín she was to find some reason to restrain him.

‘Surprise, surprise,' Eileen shouted as they arrived at Peadar's door.

‘
Glór do Dhia
(praise to God),' he cried with astonishment, ‘Where on earth did you two come from? Let me get a look at you.'

When greetings had been exchanged, they sat around the hearth fire until the small hours relating all that had happened in Aran and Spain respectively since their last meeting.

‘It has been very lonesome here these past months,' Peadar said. ‘When you were in Galway it was no distance for us to get together. Spain, on the other hand, is a long way off. Is there any hope of you coming back to live here again?'

‘We'll not talk about that tonight,' Eileen replied. ‘We'll have to wait and see what the future holds in store for us.'

Preparations had to be made for Christmas—time was running out; there was much to be done. Cleaning and decorating the house, a trip to Galway for supplies of groceries, whiskey, oil and candles, confessions in the parish chapel, preparing the turkey and plum pudding—it was going to be all ‘a go' for Eileen. Seosamh was willing to help but his mother had first claim on his services. She had aged a lot in the previous year and wasn't able for very much activity. While Micilín was a good lad for outside work he hadn't much taste when it came to tidying and cleaning within. His mother said he should be on the look out for a wife. Micilín had no notion of tying himself down .

‘Time enough to a bad market,' he commented, when she broached the subject. ‘Won't I be soon enough ten years from now?'

‘You'll be lucky if there's any young woman left in Aran by then,' his mother remonstrated, ‘you'd do well to grab one while the going is good.'

Spending Christmas once again in Aran was a delight for all. December weather was unusually dry and bright. Early Mass on Christmas morning brought poignant memories as each recalled particular episodes of their childhood—fasting from midnight, starved from hunger as the priest's sermon went on and on, greetings exchanged between neighbours and friends, prayers at the family grave, running ahead of parents and siblings to be the first to see what Santa had brought. Peadar and Eileen remembered with sadness their first Christmas after the tragic death of her mother. Seosamh recalled the more recent loss of his father and murmured a prayer for the eternal repose of his soul.

‘Come, now, let's not become morbid on this happy occasion,' Eileen said, as she served a breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausages. ‘Dad, you'll have a little aperitif?' She poured him a generous helping of whiskey. ‘There's nothing like a drop of spirits to raise the cockles of the heart.'

‘Maybe it's time Seosamh and you sampled a little alcohol,' Peadar suggested as he poured them each a glass. ‘Here's good health to all of us.
Go mbeirmid beo ar an am seo arís'
(may we be alive this time next year).

In mid January the young couple packed their bags once again and returned to Spain. Eileen had arranged with the university authorities in Salamanca to pursue a course leading to a doctorate in languages. In her short sojourn at Estat de Tirelle she perceived a need among young people to learn English as an extra language. She hoped that the university might bring this within the remit of their social studies programme on the estate. With permission from his superiors in Ireland, Philip had already commenced advanced studies in Spanish at Salamanca University. In place of residing at Estat de Tirelle as he had requested, he was constrained by his order to live in the Dominican House in the city. There was no restriction on him moving freely between the centres or in spending weekends and holidays with his Irish friends. Seosamh was called on by the Smallholders Association to advise their members on agricultural problems. Arid soil conditions which prevailed during summer months were a major constraint to crop yields and animal welfare. There was an urgent need for water if improved yields were to be achieved. On first sight the elevated nature of the hinterland raised the possibility of creating artificial pondage where water from winter rain could be stored at high level and conveyed in summer through open drains to areas under crop. While the idea appeared feasible at first, on further consideration it was realised that this arrangement would not give uniform dispersal. Supplies would be seriously diminished through leakage and dehydration in summer temperatures. As an alternative, it was proposed to drill a number of deep wells through the area from which occupiers could draw water to meet their individual requirements. Finance would be required for the purchase of drilling and pumping equipment—a question arose as to where the money would come from. In his role as trustee of the lands, Father Benedictus was consulted. He explained that he did not have access to funding for this purpose. Under the terms of Carlos's Will, income from renting of allotments that accrued to Eileen, and Peadar, could not be misappropriated. In the light of potential benefits to the occupiers through better crop yields, he suggested that a separate fund should be created in proportion to the number of hectares farmed by each tenant. Additional finance for the project could be borrowed on a short-term repayment basis. Following long drawn out deliberations between the occupiers, the proposal was approved. It was decided that initially a small number of wells would be sunk on common lands in locations that facilitated users equally. When the success of these had been monitored, and added value in growth of crops evaluated, the total number of wells required would be assessed. A diviner was engaged to establish the best water- bearing locations; the first wells came on stream three months later. The ‘thump, thump, thump,' of pumps could be heard throughout the community as water was pumped by day and night to fill resorvoirs and containers on each allottment. Seosamh's role in the project earned him widespread acclaim.

T
HE TELEGRAM THAT REACHED EILEEN WAS GRIM
and lacking in detail:

Tuesday February 19. Violent storm at sea. Peadar lost overboard. Not found. Search continuing. Máirtín.'

Reeling from shock, Eileen clung to Seosamh. Between sobs she cried out: ‘Oh my God, look at the date of the message; this happened several days ago. Why has there been no more news? Dad, Dad, how did this terrible thing happen to you? You sailed that hooker for years in all kinds of weather without mishap. Damn the bloody sea, I hate it—I hate it. It has robbed me of those who mattered most in my life—first my grandfather, then my mother, and now the best father and friend a girl ever had. My God, my God, what have I done to deserve this? It was you, Dad, who made sure that I learned to swim but you never attempted it yourself. You had the notion that, swimmer or not, the sea would take you if it wanted you. I pray, Dad, that you had no misgivings on that score. Ochón, ochón, how we loved each other—now you are gone from me forever and ever! Seosamh,' she cried between gasps of uncontrollable sobbing, ‘we must return to Aran and join in the search for my father. Maybe, in God's mercy, he was able to cling to a fish box or a broken plank; the storm may have blown him onto rocks along the coast. Alive or dead, I'll not rest until he is found.'

‘Which route will get us there fastest?' Seosamh asked. ‘If you wish, I can drive to San Sebastian where we will leave the car and take a train to Paris. After that it's a case of getting a flight to Dublin or going overland through England. Either means should get us home in two to three days.'

‘Do as you suggest, Seosamh—we'll play it by ear; my head is so confused, I am not able to think properly. All I want is that we leave immediately. I'll pack a few things for us both—we'll set out right away.'

The Taurus purred as Seosamh drove with precision and care through Burgos and Vitoria. Darkness had fallen when they reached San Sebastian—there was no way they would be able to get any farther that night.

‘We'll check the times of train departures and look for a hotel,' Eileen announced, as they reached the centre of town.

‘The Maria Cristina,' a pedestrian suggested—'second street on the right—corner building; I can recommend it.'

Having acknowledged his help, the couple located the Maria Cristina, approached the desk and explained their situation to the receptionist. They required accommodation for one night and asked if they might leave their car long-term in the hotel car park. The manager, conscious of frequent terrorist activities in the adjoining Basque country and fearful for the safety of his hotel and guests, was reluctant to oblige. He asked many questions and insisted on examining the vehicle. Finally he agreed that they could leave the car, not in the precincts of the hotel, but in a private garage at his house some distance away. Having ascertained that a train left San Sabastian for Paris at seven the following morning, the travellers partook of supper, paid their bill in advance, and repaired to their rooms for an early night.

Fatigued from the trauma of the previous twenty-four hours and tired from the long drive, Seosamh was in a deep sleep when he heard a frantic knocking on the door of his room: ‘Seosamh, Seosamh, it's me Eileen—open the door and let me in—let me in quickly.'

Still half asleep, he jumped out of bed and hastily unlocked the door of his room. Sobbing and crying, Eileen fell into his arms, and entwined herself around his neck as he sat her on the side of his bed.

‘Seosamh,' she cried, ‘I had a terrible dream. I saw Dad floundering in the sea, bobbing up and down before he was carried away by some strange creature—I couldn't make out if it was human or beast; they swam far out into the ocean. At the same time, from somewhere out there, I heard a feebly spoken line from a poem that dad used to recite when I was young:

It looked like an Eden away far away.

It was all so clear, Seosamh; I awoke in a sweat, trembling all over. You'll have to forgive me for rousing you out of your sleep; I couldn't bear to stay in that room any longer.'

‘It's all right, Eileen, don't apologise. What else would you do but to call me? You can have my bed; I'll sleep in your room. I'll stay with you until you go to sleep.'

‘Seosamh, don't leave me—you're the only person I have to turn to now that dad has gone. Please stay with me—we'll sleep together. I want your arms around me to reassure me. Come on, put out the light; we'll get into bed and try to have some rest in preparation for our journey tomorrow.'

‘But, Eileen, ……………….'

‘No buts, Seosamh, we've known one another long enough to have made a commitment. If you need further affirmation, I'll marry you as soon as you see fit to ask me. I need you, I need you now. Come into bed and tell me over and over that you love me.'

‘Of course, I love you, Eileen—you know that. I'm pleased to ask you here and now. I'm already on my knees; Eileen, will you marry me?'

The return trip to Kilronan was in stark contrast to their joyful experience of three months earlier. Máirtín filled them in on the tragic happenings of the night of the storm: ‘We were returning from a fishing trip seventy miles out at sea. The hooker was low in the water from the weight of fish. Although the night was dark, all appeared well as we set a course for Aran, planning to tie up in Kilronan sometime next morning. Suddenly there was a flurry of waves followed by a rising wind from the north-west that hit the boat broadside and quickly assumed the characteristics of a hurricane. The hooker rose and fell in mountainous seas and deep troughs. Manning the tiller, I strove to steer a direct course running before the storm, while Peadar bent to set the main sail to take advantage of the propulsion afforded. Before the boat had come about, a sudden squall hit her, sweeping Peadar off his feet into the water. Such was the speed of the hooker that his cry for help reached me from far behind—there was no way that, single handed, I could turn the hooker quickly enough to retrieve him. The howl of the storm muffled his feeble shouts—these soon ceased. There was absolutely nothing I could do to save him. Gale force winds were so strong that the hooker was blown far to the south and so much off course that it took me four days to get back to Aran. I am truly sorry, Eileen, that all of this had to happen.'

‘Go ndéana Dia trócaire orainn go léir
(May God have mercy on all of us),' Sorcha prayed as she listened once again to Máirtín's account of the tragedy. Eileen's sobs echoed through the open half door—nothing that was said consoled her.

‘My Dad, my Dad, why, oh why did it have to happen to you?' she cried in abject despondency. Drying her eyes suddenly she turned to Seosamh. ‘Come with me to Peadar's house. There, at least, I will feel that I am in his presence. It is where the longest memories of my father abide; there I can reminisce on all about him that I knew and loved. Máirtín doesn't hold out much chance of my father being found,' she sobbed as they left for Peadar's place—'still, Seosamh, you and I must leave no stone unturned. Tomorrow we will search along the shore on this side of the island. On the next day we'll turn our attention to the other side. The sea ultimately gives up its victim, but only God knows when or where. Even though the tragedy occurred far out at sea, depending on the tides and on the direction in which the gale continued to blow, it is possible that my dad may have been washed up on some beach. I can't stop thinking about the dream in which I saw him being carried away by a strange creature. Do you think, Seosamh, was it his father who came to meet him and take him to the legendary island of Hy Brasil? His mother held that belief when her husband's body was never found. Dad himself gave a lot of credence to the tale about Mongán, son of Mannanán Mac Lir, who was changed into a reptile by a cruel sorceress whose advances he spurned, and condemned to live below the waves until he reached the lost island of Hy Brasil, at which time his youthful manhood would return. Commonly referred to as the
capall muirbhach, (
sea horse), fishermen regarded him as a good omen. Some claimed to have encountered him in the form of a large reptile with the head of a horse, a body covered in hair and a long tail, appearing and disappearing alongside their boat, heading them in a particular direction away from danger, and warning them of an impending storm. Dad was always singing about a sailor who went in search of Hy-Brasil and never returned: